I returned from London to find the wine missing. Not just any wine—three bottles of 1945 Romanée-Conti, worth five million dollars total, purchased specifically for my daughter Lily's christening gala. I'd spent months hunting them down through private auction houses, authenticating every detail. Now they were gone. I stood frozen in our penthouse wine cellar, staring at the empty slots in the climate-controlled vault. My hands trembled as I pulled out my phone, scrolling through Instagram with mounting dread. There it was. Serena's story from two hours ago: three bottles of burgundy positioned artfully on a marble table, surrounded by crystal glasses and elaborate floral arrangements. The caption read: "When your boss knows how to celebrate properly. Everyone says it's the best wine they've ever tasted." My vision blurred. Julian had commented below: "Only the best for you. If it made you smile, it was worth every penny." I screenshot the post and opened the company Slack channel—the main one with all 200 employees. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Charlotte Vance: Interesting. Julian can't afford to buy his assistant birthday wine, so he steals from his daughter's christening instead? How thoughtful. I attached the screenshot. My phone immediately exploded with notifications, but I ignored them. I was shaking so hard I had to sit down on the Persian rug in our living room. The phone rang. Julian. "Charlotte, what the hell is wrong with you?" His voice was sharp, impatient. "You're being insane over a few bottles of wine?" "A few bottles—" "I don't have time for this childish tantrum. Buy more if you want them so badly. I'm not dealing with your drama right now—Serena's about to give her presentation to the Singapore investors. We'll talk later." The line went dead. I stared at my phone, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. Family thieves were always the hardest to guard against. The phone rang again. Different number. "Mrs. Thorne? This is Madison from Portrait Atelier. Just a reminder that your appointment for Lily's family portraits is in an hour. Don't forget to come early for wardrobe selection!" I checked my watch. Fifty-three minutes. Julian was... at Serena's birthday party. I was silent for a long moment. "Change it to just me and my daughter. Her father won't be attending." "Oh! That's—if Mr. Thorne is busy, we can absolutely reschedule to a more convenient—" "No. Today. Just us." I hung up. If he couldn't be bothered to prioritize his daughter, I wouldn't waste time waiting for him. --- Portrait Atelier occupied the entire twentieth floor of a building in Tribeca, all exposed brick and natural light. The staff greeted me with careful smiles—a mixture of pity and awkward sympathy. I barely noticed. I just wanted this done. The stylist led me to the viewing area while another assistant prepared Lily's wardrobe. "We'll pull up some sample shots for inspiration while you wait, Mrs. Thorne." I nodded absently, settling into the velvet chair with Lily sleeping in my arms. The monitor flickered to life. My heart stopped. There, in crisp high-definition, was Julian in a charcoal Tom Ford tuxedo. Beside him, Serena wore a white Vera Wang gown, her hand resting possessively on his chest as she gazed up at him with practiced adoration. Wedding photos. They were fucking wedding photos. The stylist, oblivious to the blood draining from my face, smiled brightly. "Oh, those two! They came in last week to pick up their prints. Such a sweet couple—we're actually thinking of using these shots for our portfolio. The chemistry is just—" She finally looked at me and froze. "Mrs. Thorne? Are you... alright?" Lily, sensing my distress, began to wail.
"Just—" My voice cracked. "Just pick whatever you think works. I'll be back." I practically ran out, clutching my screaming daughter, my vision swimming. I paid the balance at the front desk without looking at anyone and escaped into the elevator. Back at the penthouse, I finally got Lily calmed down and settled in her bassinet. My phone had been vibrating non-stop. The Slack channel was in absolute chaos. I opened it. Serena had @'d me with a carefully crafted message: Serena Walsh: I apologize, Charlotte. I understand you have concerns about me, but today's situation is truly a misunderstanding. The wine was a personal gift from Julian for my hard work on the Singapore project—I had no idea it was meant for Lily's christening. Today's party was Julian's way of celebrating both my birthday and the successful deal we just closed. Your outburst has embarrassed him in front of major partners. If this deal falls through because of the hostile work environment you've created, the losses will be far more than a few bottles of wine... but I suppose that's on me for accepting the gift. I should have known better. The classic passive-aggressive victim routine. Poor little Serena, just trying to do her job, caught in the crossfire of a jealous wife. Before I could respond, Julian's message appeared: Julian Thorne: @Charlotte Vance Serena has apologized. She's offered to reimburse you. What more do you want? Do you really need to air our private issues in front of the entire company? You're making us both look ridiculous. This petty jealousy over a few bottles of wine is beneath you. Grow up. Employees started chiming in immediately: David K.: Honestly, Charlotte, Serena has been working 80-hour weeks on the Singapore deal. A little recognition seems reasonable. Michelle R.: Women need to support women. Serena's just trying to do her job. This seems like overkill for some wine... Tom S.: Julian's under a lot of pressure. Maybe cut him some slack? I watched the messages pile up—defending Serena, chastising me, painting me as the hysterical, jealous wife having a meltdown over nothing. Something inside me went very, very quiet. The rage evaporated, replaced by crystal clarity. I typed slowly, deliberately: Charlotte Vance: Perfect. Three bottles at $5 million total. I expect the wire transfer to my account by tomorrow morning. Thanks. I hit send. Then I tapped "Leave Channel" and watched the chaos disappear. Silence. --- It hadn't always been like this. Julian and I had been solid—or so I'd thought. But then Serena joined the company eight months ago, right as I entered my third trimester. While I was on bed rest, Julian was hiking the Catskills with Serena for "team building." He started coming home later. Mentioning her name more. Serena thinks we should pivot to Asian markets. Serena landed us a meeting with the Singaporeans. Serena stayed late again to prep the pitch deck. I'd convinced myself I was being paranoid. Pregnancy hormones. Exhaustion. But after Lily was born, it got worse. While our daughter screamed through the night, Julian was at the office with Serena. Late dinners. Weekend "strategy sessions." That's when I knew. His heart had left our home long ago. I stared at my sleeping daughter, then opened my messages and typed: To: Marcus Goldstein, Esq. I need a divorce attorney. Fast. I paused, finger hovering over send. The christening gala was in two days. If we announced a divorce now, the whispers would follow Lily for years. "Born just before her parents split." "The christening where everything fell apart." I deleted the message. I'd wait until after the gala. For Lily's sake. But I called my father. "Daddy? I need you to source more 1945 Romanée-Conti. Yes, I know they're nearly impossible to find. No, I can't explain right now. Can you try?" He managed to locate two bottles through his connections—not the same vintage year, but close enough. They'd have to do. The christening gala was going to happen. With or without Julian.
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